Borders
by LadyRoquiesha
Summary: A fic based on the Broadway version of the musical "Chess"...more chapters are on their way...
1. Default Chapter

I.  
  
ABOARD A FLIGHT BOUND FOR RUSSIA  
ABOUT OCTOBER, 1988  
  
  
An unsettling silence lingered over the first class passengers. They all knew that Anatoly Sergievsky was sitting among them. Sergievsky, a well-known figure both in Russia and around the world, had just faced a crushing defeat in the World Chess Championship. Yet, there was something else that kept the cabin quiet. Perhaps it was the knowledge that Sergievsky, who had defected to the U.S. and disappeared with his opponent's former second, was returning for the first time to his homeland - as a traitor. This was, to be certain, not lost on Sergievsky, who was sitting in the third row of the cabin with his wife, Svetlana, and his second, Ivan Molokov.  
  
"Tolya," Svetlana pleaded, "tell me everything. Please."  
  
"Svetlana, the last time I tried it upset you greatly. I don't want to hurt you, but I will not lie, either. Do you honestly -" Anatoly whispered.  
  
"I am far more prepared for this now. I want to know the whole story. Right now," she interrupted.  
  
Anatoly hesitated. He eyed the cabin warily. Practically all of the travelers on board were asleep, Molokov included. Relieved that he wasn't being stared at like he thought, he reluctantly began his confession.  
  
"Fine. You only have yourself to blame should any of this upset you. It was a brilliant, warm night in Bangkok when it all began. Molokov had arranged for a meeting between us and them - Freddie Trumper and Florence. He promised that Freddie would apologize for disrupting the first match - he walked out of the arena in the middle of play. Knowing Trumper, I doubted this would happen - an apology, I mean. Trumper's not the remorseful sort. Even so, I came along for the ride.   
  
The meeting was to be held at a restaurant called, I believe, the 'Generous Sole'. Something ridiculous. It was very quaint for what it was, though. We waited for twenty minutes or so until Florence showed up. Freddie was nowhere to be found. Molokov, in frustration, left in search of him. This left Florence and me alone...with the exception of one of Molokov's cronies, who was watching us from behing at a table against the wall. Standard Molokov procedure; the man trusts no one.   
  
I tried to hold a civilized conversation with Florence, but I found it difficult. I couldn't deny it - I was incredibly attracted to her. On top of being one of the best chess players in the world, she was beautiful. Her eyes, especially. She also had this fierce air of defiance that I found amazing. Very few people have the nerve to stand up for themselves in conversation with Molokov, but she did. Yet what I found most attractive was how she defended Trumper. No matter how insane his actions, she could justify them. She was, in a sense, more shrewd than he, and just because she's the only woman in the whole business, she really knew how to get her way...and did at times. Everyone was a little bit afraid of her. I was mesmerized. At the restaurant, she seemed very distraught. She wouldn't make eye contact with me. I tried talking to her, but everything I said was flirtatious in some way. It made matters worse, and I looked like a fool.   
  
The restaurant had a terrace that looked out over downtown Bangkok. Florence, at that point uncomfortably tense, excused herself and headed out on the terrace. Moments later, I went and hid in the doorway leading to the terrace. Something was wrong, but I wasn't sure what. I finally found the courage to approach her, but this time I was worse. I was not myself, I'm sure. I walked up to her and made some comment about Trumper's absence not mattering, and she backed away from me, intrigued but terrified. Molokov's henchman (I don't remember his name) followed me on to the terrace, but I sent him away. Florence tried masking her fear by making some statement about being dangerous, but I saw through it. Then, all of a sudden, we kissed. It was then the pieces feel into place. I suddenly understood why Florence was so scared. It felt as if she was searching for something. Through that kiss, she told me silently what she was afraid to say aloud. Out of blind fear, she pulled away, denouncing the whol  
e thing as insane. Agreeing, I pulled her closer, and we kissed again. Moments later, I stepped back - in a daze. Then, she came up to me and we kissed yet again, this time without any hesitation. It was then Freddie walked in with Walter Anderson, his manager, and Molokov. To distract him, I apologized. He refused the apology. Florence begged us all to leave, and I did as she asked."  
  
Svetlana stayed quiet as Anatoly continued. Her eyes would occasionally meet his, displaying an understanding she had never shown - or felt - before.  
  
"Riding back to the hotel, Molokov was clearly angry. He asked me if I had lost my mind, and I said yes. He then threatened that if I lost the next day's match he would telephone you and tell you about Florence and me.   
  
Back in my hotel room, I could not sleep. I couldn't help but wonder if Florence would leave Freddie for me. I tried to devise a plan for Florence and me to escape, but it seemed impossible. She was certainly not going to leave everything and run away, and I certainly could not bring her into the Soviet Union. I tried to call her hotel room several times, but would hang up before she answered.   
  
Then, at long last, it occured to me: What if I were American? Then not only would I have Florence, but I would be far away from Molokov and all. Molokov had informed me before the match that Trumper's manager was in reality a CIA agent. Knowing this, I figured he had the clout I needed to defect quickly. The next morning, I informed Anderson of the situation. He was all too eager to be of service.   
  
I ended up winning the match the next day. Florence had not shown up until the conclusion of the game. I tried to approach her then, but I was quickly distracted by an impromptu celebration held by various members of the Soviet chess delegation. Shortly after, the Bangkok closing ceremonies commenced. Freddie was in attendance, but not Florence.   
  
I slipped out right after things started winding down and hastily wrote Florence a letter telling her how I felt and that I was going to defect should she want to escape with me. Walter took my letter and sent me off with a group of Americans that would take me to what he called 'the necessary places'. Sure enough, my luggage was already in the car. I didn't ask any questions.   
  
I was rushed through the hotel parking garage. There I met Florence, who had her luggage packed and ready as well. This all seemed strange to me. Molokov and Nikolai tried chasing me, but could not catch up. We were taken to the airport, where we met several U.S. embassy officials....and Walter broke the first of many promises. Florence had begged that Walter get us through the airport without the media knowing where we were. Instead, he brought us face-to-face with dozens of reporters who kept asking us embarassing questions. I was scared...very scared...Florence tried to hide it, but she was scared as well."  
  
Anatoly cleared his throat. Svetlana studied him silently as he continued.  
  
"I explained my defection to the press as being the result of a desire to travel...which, I suppose, it was in a sense...I tried to divert attention away from Florence. When we finally had clearance to board the plane, we did. It was a terribly long flight. We talked the entire time. It was during this time she told me about her father. Just as I had suspected, she was the daughter of Gregor Vassy, a Hungarian chess champion who was not allowed to compete in international play because of the political problems between Hungary and Russia. Had he...he might have become one of the best players the world has seen in over a century. She is very bitter about that. I had heard of her father during my early days as a junior player, and I had always felt sorry for him, but never as much as I had that night on the plane. Florence was only four when she was taken to America from Budapest...a terrible uprising had made Budapest a dangerous place. Florence knows nothing of her mother. Nothing at all. Her fathe  
r was her only family. Leaving her entire life behind at such a young age was hard on her. It's a sad story, to be very sure. But it ends happy...that is all that matters."  
  
"Anatoly," Svetlana persisted, "that is not all that happened. Even I know this."  
  
"I suppose you are right," he admitted. "When we arrived in America - in New York City, that is - we took a cab to Connecticut, where Florence's house is. It's a beautful place. There's a park very near to there. We did not leave there but maybe once or twice. Every moment was...wonderful..." He closed his eyes, savoring some secret memory painfully.  
  
Svetlana broke the uneasy silence. "If you don't want to talk about it, I understand."  
  
"No," Anatoly assured, "I can handle this. It will be hard for me, but I will carry on. She is happy...so I am happy also. It's difficult to let go, is all."  
  
"You really love her, don't you?" she questioned.  
  
"Yes. More than I've ever loved anyone. I don't think she knew this." He hesitated.  
  
This struck Svetlana as odd. "Tolya," she replied, "If a man left the only life he's ever known and moved halfway across the world for me, I would not doubt his love."  
  
"Svetlana, you must understand...she's been hurt so many times. She's not the most trusting of people," he replied.  
  
"I see." She reflected on this for a moment. "And did she love you in return, Anatoly?" Her tone was sincere, not bitter as Anatoly thought it would have been.  
  
"Yes, she did. I could not have asked for anything...But this is not the main topic of conversation, no?"  
  
Svetlana agreed. "You are right. Now - back to where you left off."  
  
"One of the many things I learned about Florence as we confided in one another was that she would give everything to have her father back. That had been her only dream since they were seperated. She loved her adoptive father to some degree - he was an American professor and was not married - but he could not replace her real father, and they both knew this. Arriving in Budapest was a thrill for her. She had not been there since the uprising...and the possibility of finding her father was exciting to her. I was afraid to sightsee in Budapest because I did not want to be faced by the press, or by any of the Russian delegation. I also did not want to endanger Florence in any way. The night of our arrival, I later learned, Molokov ran into Florence in a cathedral. He told her he would help find her father for her. She did not tell me this.   
  
"Our idyll began to fall apart when Florence found out that you were in Budapest. She began to doubt my love, figuring she'd been made a fool of...that I did everything merely to have an advantage over Trumper. That was the state of mind she was in that night at the restaurant when you met her. She was very hurt." He looked at Svetlana, hoping to register a response.  
  
"I could see that she was very much in pain. I did not say anything hateful. I just told her that you told me you loved her...and asked her to treat you well. She was very distraught, and I tried to be as understanding as possible. She was very gracious to me as well." She frowned, at a loss for words.  
  
Anatoly resumed. "When you were on the terrace, Walter told me that Molokov found Florence's father, or a man who claimed to be. After Nikolai forced you out of the restaurant, Florence and I discussed this. We realized that I would not be allowed to leave the country with her if her father left also. The final game was the next day, you also know...that was still a concern. She eventually went back to the hotel. I went to my dressing room.   
  
I was in a state of confusion. I had only hours to decide. I could either lose Florence's love and win the match, keeping her from returning home with her father...as the KGB would prevent me from being a victor and an American also...or I could lose the love of my life and yet do something that would make her ultimately more happy than anything I could give her...by losing the match. The chess was not important then. It was a matter of giving Florence up. I finally realized that nothing I did could prove my love more.   
  
That morning, after a long, sleepless night, Florence paid me a visit...and by doing this confirmed that my decision was right. Still weary and confused, I sent her away. I showed up late for the match...and lost, purposely. I knew that Trumper realized I lost on purpose. It shocked him, I think. He wants a fair fight. A true way to prove his skill. He did not, I suppose, understand why anyone would just give up the world title. I did not hate Trumper at all...I had just felt bad about giving him the only thing that mattered to him...and by getting this, he had, in turn, broken Florence's heart. But she would emerge from this with what she wanted. It was a fair deal. Or so I thought.   
  
After the match, I did not see her at all. I packed a few last things back in the hotel room...still no sign of Florence. It was very odd...she had left her coat in the room, which meant she had to be in the hotel...but she was nowhere to be found. I was worried, but this gave me a perfect opportunity to do something I'd intended to do for weeks. You see, in America, I had bought her this necklace while we were shopping at...what was the American word for it...a mall. It's a large building full of different kinds of stores. Much like the G.U.M. in Moscow. I asked her at one point to excuse me while I used the restroom (which, I did not lie, I did.) Of course, the jewelry store was on the way back. It wasn't a terribly expensive necklace, but it was very pretty. She didn't catch me buying it, and I kept it in my coat pocket.   
  
I kept waiting for the right moment to give it to her. As usual, the moment never came. So I wrote her a farewell letter, as I knew we wouldn't have adequate time to say goodbye. In the letter, I wished her all of the happiness in the world with her father and told her that I love her, always...that she will be in my thoughts and prayers every day...and that I hope that my meager gift will remind her of the happiness we shared for such a short time. I folded the letter and put it inside the little box with the necklace. I then put the box in her coat pocket...and proceeded to leave for the airport.   
  
I finally saw her as she arrived in the airport lobby...which, of course, you know. After you boarded the plane, we both tried to talk optimistically about where we were headed, but we both realized how foolish we sounded. I could never go back to America, and she could never come to Russia. She, in an attempt to make leaving less painful, kept her distance for a few minutes...as the final boarding call drew near, she eventually gave up holding back and I held her for a few fleeting moments. As I slowly turned to go, she turned to go, she turned away from me and covered her eyes. It was a devastating sight. I would have paid anything for more time.   
  
"I didn't think leaving would hurt her that much. I felt that I was relieving her of a burden. It was upsetting for me, but it is over now."  
  
"Yes," Svetlana echoed. "It is all over now." She took his hand gently and clasped it in hers. Anatoly smiled faintly.  
  
Waking from his nap, Molokov turned to Svetlana and Anatoly. "Has the stewardess come around with beverages? I'm in the mood for a good stiff drink."  
  
Svetlana laughed. "No, I'm afraid she hasn't."  
  
"Very well then," Molokov responded. With that sentiment, he went back to sleep.  
  
"It would do you good to sleep as well, Anatoly," Svetlana murmured. He nodded.  
  
"I love you, Svetlana," Anatoly replied.  
  
Her eyes filled with tears. "I love you too, Tolya."  
  
Anatoly laid his head against his seat and sighed. "I hope that you will be happy, Svetlana."  
  
"Do not worry about me, Anatoly," she insisted. "Please." She leaned closer and they kissed for a moment.  
  
Anatoly pulled away. "I believe I should be getting to sleep as you said."  
  
"Please do." Svetlana sat back in her seat.  
  
Anatoly closed his eyes and began to sleep.  
  
"Yes, Anatoly," she thought to herself. "It is all over now. 


	2. I'm still denying anything's changed, an...

II.  
  
MOLOKOV's OFFICE, MOSCOW  
THE NEXT AFTERNOON  
  
The office was cold and symmetrical. Intimidating brass plaques covered in etched Cyrillic lettering were the only colorful respite from the drab browns and greys of the room.  
  
Molokov entered first, and seated himself behind the desk. Svetlana followed, and sat in a chair facing Molokov. Refusing to sit, Anatoly stood against the wall.  
  
"Please, Anatoly," Molokov urged. "Take a seat."  
  
"I prefer to stand, thank you," Anatoly said tersely.  
  
"As you wish." Molokov looked from Anatoly to Svetlana, who was nervously rummaging through her purse in search of a barrette to secure a lock of hair that was falling in her eyes.  
  
Molokov cleared his throat and continued. "I'm sure you've guessed, Anatoly, that there will be reprocussions for your actions."  
  
Anatoly nodded. He glanced at Svetlana, whose nervousness gave way to tears.  
  
"Do you think you can handle this?" Molokov asked with a note of concern in his voice.  
  
Svetlana messily wiped away her tears. "Yes," she said with resolve. "Let's just get this out of the way."  
  
"Very well then," Molokov continued. "Anatoly, I won't mince words with you. Your wife wants a divorce."  
  
Anatoly blinked. "Svetlana, is this true?"   
  
"Yes," she said hoarsely. "We have been fooling each other for far too long." She clumsily pulled the wedding ring off of her finger and placed it on Molokov's desk. "This, this...joke of a marriage was something convenient, that is all. We both need to move on with our lives."  
  
Anatoly knelt at Svetlana's side and reached for her hand. She closed her eyes as he held it and studied it. "Is this what you want, or what they want?" he whispered solemnly.  
  
"I think for myself, Anatoly," she said, pulling her hand back and drawing back into her seat. "Besides," she added coldly, "you have already replaced me."  
  
Anatoly, taken aback by the unexpected force of Svetlana's words, rose and returned to his standing position. "I care about you a great deal, Svetlana. I just...I don't want to see you leave and not know that you will be provided for."  
  
"Do not worry," she said hastily. "I have all that I will require."  
  
At that moment, a knock was heard. "Enter," Molokov bellowed.  
  
Nikolai burst dramatically into the room. A man of medium build with menacing green eyes, Nikolai was Molokov's assistant and a junior delegate of the Soviet chess federation. Fixing his gaze on Svetlana, who continued to sniffle quietly, he addressed Molokov. "Is it done yet?" he demanded impatiently.  
  
Molokov smiled indulgently. "Soon, Nikolai. If you would, please wait outside. We shall be finished in a matter of moments."  
  
"Very well." Nikolai glared at Anatoly, who returned his angry look with one of bewilderment.  
  
"Bastard," Nikolai muttered as he slammed the door behind him.  
  
"Shall we finish this business, then?" Molokov produced a legal document from the top drawer of the desk and thrust a pen in Svetlana's direction. She took it and quickly scribbled her name on the bottom.  
  
"Anatoly?" Molokov took the pen from Svetlana and handed it to Anatoly, who skimmed the words of the decree. "I solemnly agree to dissolve..." The words, emblazoned on the page in black and white, were even greyer than his surroundings.  
  
"Very well," Anatoly said dejectedly as he signed.  
  
"May I leave?" Svetlana hesitated.  
  
"Yes, Svetlana, you may." Molokov took the document from Anatoly's hands and returned it to the drawer. "Thank you for your patience."  
  
"Anatoly," she whispered.  
  
"Yes?" Anatoly said as he sat down in the chair next to Svetlana.  
  
"I am sorry." She averted her eyes and robotically closed the clasp of her purse.  
  
"I am sorry too," he said. "I love you, Svetlana."  
  
"I love you too," she squeaked as she hurried out of the room in tears.  
  
A couple of moments of silence followed. Anatoly found that he was staring at the buttons on the cuff of Molokov's jacket.  
  
"When she said she was going to be provided for, was she speaking of Nikolai?" Anatoly asked, distractedly.  
  
"Yes," Molokov replied. "It is nice to know that there are still Soviet men with decency still intact. He was a great comfort to her when the scandal with the American happened."  
  
Anatoly ignored this comment. "Are you finished with me?"   
  
"Finished? Hardly. You still have a debt to pay."  
  
"What sort of debt?"  
  
"One to your country and sport. The Soviet Union is in a precarious state, Anatoly. We cannot allow foolish acts such as the one that you committed to happen. And so we must ensure that it will not happen again."  
  
"What are you expecting me to do, then?" Anatoly stared at Molokov, unsure of what he was suggesting.  
  
"Reclaim the title of chess champion from the Americans." Molokov chuckled.   
  
"Y-you must be out of your mind!" Anatoly sputtered.  
  
"Me, out of my mind? I think not. You are the greatest chess player of your generation. You are a representative of the greatest nation this world has ever and will ever know. You must lead the Soviet Union into a new era. An era of power."  
  
"How can I worry about something this trivial when I have been stripped of my home, my family, my life?"  
  
"Don't fret, Anatoly. We have it all taken care of. You shall train, nine hours a day, here. A room has been prepared for you. You shall live here, and you will not be allowed to leave except for under the supervision of our guards. You are our most precious commodity, Anatoly. We are not going to let you slip through our fingers again."  
  
"How dare you..." Anatoly spat.  
  
"How dare I? No, Anatoly, how dare you? It's either you do as we ask, and live comfortably and repair your reputation, or I turn you out onto the streets of Moscow, where you are viewed as a coward and a traitor. You won't be able to find work. What can you do? Nothing. Play chess. Be realistic. This is your only option."  
  
Anatoly shook his head. "You are all criminals," he mumbled.  
  
Molokov laughed at this. "It takes one to know one, I'm afraid. Don't worry, Anatoly. These next few months will fly by, and before you know it, the world will have forgotten your mistake."  
  
"I regret nothing!" Anatoly countered.  
  
"Yes, but remember where you are. Russia is not a nation of individuals. You and your silly infatuation with the American do not matter. All that matters is the common good. And the common good dictates that you restore us to our original state of glory."  
  
"You will all pay for this one day." Anatoly closed his eyes and sighed.  
  
Molokov picked up the receiver on the phone on his desk and punched a couple of numbers. "Mr. Trinkeyev? Sergievsky is on his way."  
  
He carefully replaced the receiver. "Welcome home," he sneered as Anatoly buried his head in his hands. 


End file.
